


Advent VIII

by Tammany



Series: Assorted Advent Stories, Christmas 2014, All-sorts, some connected. [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Big Brother Mycroft, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Clever Mycroft, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 08:05:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2724911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh, yes. So much easier to title these. No pensive thought, no brooding...justi clickety-click on the keyboard and I'm done.</p><p>Happier than last time, but Sherlock and Janine are still finding their way. It's still much less broody than last time--and Mycroft is busy proving he's the smart brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent VIII

_“Mmmm, merry, merry, merry Christmas, Mmmmm, merry, merry, merry Christmas,”_ Mycroft Holmes sung under his breath as he practically danced down the long hallway of Holmescroft. “ _Mmm, silver bells, bright silver bells, la-la-la-la, filling the air. Mmmm, tra-la-la-la, something,-something, silver bells, sing…_ ”

Janine, sitting on an ancient bench with a high back and wing sides, fought back giggles. Who could have guessed the grumpy, stuffy old Mike could be like this? All holiday sparkle and family sentiment? She’d seen him often enough in his totally brilliant suits, haranguing Shez about this and that. Well—she’d peeked through the crack she’d left open in the bedroom door when Sherlock had hustled her down to hide from Big Brother. In London he’d seemed sober and depressed and more than a little like a twat—though she had to admit to herself that Sherlock practically sent hand written invitations on gilded, embossed cardstock for his brother to be a twat to him. But still, she’d never imagined the man rumbling around in soft, warm country clothing, all browns and greens and mossy moleskin and fuzzy corduroy, glowing with satisfaction and contentment of a successful host.

Now she felt bad she was leaving. She pulled further back into the bench, hoping not to be seen. It was one thing to stick it to Shez, who had a bit of sticking coming to him. His brother, however, had been nothing but kind, and deserved better than to have a guest bug out right before Christmas seriously started.

Feet rumbled and pounded down the stairway, and Mycroft stopped singing, to moan, “Sherlock, really. It’s been decades since you were six years old—do you have to come down the stairs like a one-man stampede?”

“Where’s Janine?” Sherlock asked, ignoring his brother’s whinge. “She’s supposed to be here.”

She stood, a bit reluctantly. “Right here, Shay. Ready when you are.”

Mycroft beamed at her and poured gracefully down the hallway. “My dear, please, do stay. It’s been a joy having a friend of Sherlock’s one can actually count on for conversation and companionship.”

“There is John,” Sherlock muttered. “He’s civil.”

“Barely,” Mycroft sniffed, not looking at his brother. “And I still can’t decide if he’s a bad influence on you, or you on him.”

“Both,” Janine said, grinning. “They’re mutually corrupting.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows flew up, and he laughed. “Now there’s a terrifying concept. Truly, dear—while Mary and the baby are a joy to have, I would regret you leaving.”

She shrugged, embarrassed. “I’m afraid it’s for the best,” she said, and glanced meaningfully at Sherlock, hoping his brother knew enough to follow her reasoning. “Christmas—it’s complicated, right?”

Mycroft’s chin lifted, and his eyes were both knowing and still opposed, and she was uneasily grateful when Sherlock, growling at the bottom of his baritone range, grumbled, “Well, we’d best get going if you’re going to make your train. Still snowing and I want to be sure we have time to take it slowly.”

Which was entirely too sensible for Sherlock.

“You’re taking the Rover?” Mycroft asked.

“Planning on taking the Jag,” Sherlock replied, hunting for her suitcase and finding it.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll have to wait a few minutes, then. I think Fredricks was expecting you to take the safer car.”

Sherlock spun and huffed, all righteous offense. “I _can_ drive, you know.”

“The accident in ‘02?”

Sherlock huffed more dramatically. “Entirely different circumstances. The key elements do not pertain in this case.”

“Not high?” Janine asked, grinning.

He frowned, and Mycroft gave a small, barely contained chuckle. “No, he’s not high. But there was the time in ‘2010…”

“I was being chased, Mycroft. By black marketeers. You could be more reasonable…”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but said, “Fine, fine. Whatever you like. Granted, the Jag is a city car, but far be it from me to tell you what to drive…”

Sherlock huffed, and puffed, and grumbled, then turned to Janine and said, “This will just take a minute,” and walked down the hall to mutter into his phone.

“I’m sorry to delay you,” Mycroft said. “Truly, you’ll be fine whatever he picks to take you down in.”

“If I’d known your folks were coming,” she said, “I could have taken the trip back down in their cab.”

“Our loss,” Mycroft said. “Do promise you’ll be back?”

She shrugged and glanced down the way toward Sherlock’s hunched form. “I…don’t think so,” she said, softly. “He’d like me to do all the heavy hauling, you see.”

“He’s like that,” Mycroft said, not missing her point for a second. “I’m afraid anyone who’s close to him has to carry more of the load than is strictly fair.”

“Yeah, but he thinks he’s entitled. That’s not something I can be going on with.”

He nodded, then kissed her formally on each cheek as Sherlock strode back down the corridor. “I’ll just have faith,” he said. “Just know you’ve got friends who welcome you.” When he pulled back his glance was warm.

She nodded, but said, reluctantly, “It’s good of ye’, but—don’t be holding your breath.”

“I never do,” Mycroft responded, then smiled.

“No—instead he makes sure he’s got bottled oxygen on hand. Mycroft plans ahead,” Sherlock said, and snagged the suitcase, heading for the big front door. “Come along, Janine. They’ll be bringing the car around any minute.”

She decided not to ask which one, and instead waved at Mycroft before trotting along behind.

Out on the stairs leading down to the drive, she looked around. “Jaze, it’s still snowing.”

“Sticking, too,” Sherlock noted.

“So—Jag or Rover?”

“Jag,” Sherlock grumbled. “Mike’s a worry wart. I asked Fredrick if it was ready for winter. It’s got snow tires and antifreeze and he’s just had it tuned. Apparently Mycroft’s been using the holiday as an excuse to make sure all the cars are in top form. We’re fine.”

“Well, that’s nice,” she said. She looked up into the wide heaven of dark grey cloud. “Sun’s down. All that’s left is afterglow.” Then she wanted to kick herself. Why did everything she said seem to have a secondary meaning hidden beneath what she’d really meant to say. “Will you be able to make it into town for the late night mass?”

“I doubt it,” Sherlock said. “But I’m sure Mycroft has something else worked out. He plans for everything.”

The black Jaguar pulled up, and the driver got out. Sherlock loped down the stairs and took the key, then turned and called, “Come on!” before unlocking the boot and tossing her suitcase inside.

She came down carefully. The staff were keeping the steps shoveled, but the snow kept falling down, and the steps were slick. She didn’t want to fall and break her leg or even turn her ankle, necessitating a prolonged stay. She let Sherlock open the passenger door for her, and waited while he slipped in on his own side and started the engine. Then she leaned forward and turned on the radio.

“Oh, God. More Christmas music,” he grumbled.

“So it is,” she said, and leaned back happily, humming along.

_Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe_

_Help to make the season bright_

_Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow_

_Will find it hard to sleep tonight._

“At least the only infant present is little Em,” Sherlock said, for all the world as though it didn’t prove he was listening. “Think of the agony if the place were swarming with children.”

She laughed, remembering him with Archie at Mary’s wedding. “I can’t think of anything nicer,” she said. “Does your brother like children?"

“Not going by his behavior when we were boys,” Sherlock said. “Total brute.”

“And, yet, I note you survived,” she said, amused. “No broken bones?”

“Bruises,” he said…then, grudgingly, “Granted, I often struck the first blow.”

“An’ the second, I’d bet.”

He sulked so nicely, she thought. Especially when she was right.

“Thought so.”

“He said I was stupid.”

“Probably though you were, poor yob,” she said. “Seven years older an’ all. The baby always looks a bit of an eejit, doesn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

She laughed, and hummed along with the last of the song.

“He actually does have chestnuts for roasting,” Sherlock said as the radio switched to “Merry Little Christmas.”  “From our own trees, no less.”

“Never roasted any chestnuts.”

“Some other time, perhaps,” he said.

The car crept along the lane toward the main road. It slipped and slithered as they crested a short hill.

“Bugger.” He swore under his breath.

“Thought the tires were on.”

“They are. No good when the snow’s this wet—no traction. It will be better out on the main road. They’ll plough and put down grit.”

She clutched her hands in her lap and forced herself to listen to the music.

_Through the years we all will be together_

_If the fates allow_

_Hang a shinging star_

_Upon the highest bough…_

_And have yourself a merry little Christmas now._

“He would have liked you to stay.”

“Who?” she said, knowing the answer.

“Mike.”

“Told you before—it wasn’t Mike I came to see.”

He was silent. They turned onto the main road.

“I’m no good at it,” he said, finally.

“None of us is, you prat.”

“Yes. You all are. Even John. Even Mary.” He sighed. “Even Mike. Look at him…”

She smiled to herself. “He’s darling, isn’t he?”

“It’s disgusting,” he said. “He’s ruining one of my best professional associates for anything sensible.”

“They’re adorable.”

He snorted and glowered, and then, unable to keep it up, he chuckled. “Yeah. They are.”

“I’m happy for them,” she said. “Neither one is quite who I thought they were back…then.”

Nothing was quite as she’d thought it was back then.

“Is that why you’re leaving,” he growled. “Because…”

She shrugged. “I know what kind of man ye’ are, Sherlock Holmes. If I didn’t before, I do now. Stayin’ just makes it a bit too hard to remember.”

He fell silent. The shush of the wheels and the Christmas carols filled the car—until the engine faltered, coughed, and quit.

Sherlock, swearing and frightened, eased the car carefully to the shoulder and got out, flicking the bonnet open. Steam rose up. He checked the oil, checked the plugs, checked the radiator. He came stomping back, hair spangled with stars of snow. “I can’t see what’s wrong. I’ll have to call for towing. I’ll see if I can arrange a cab for you the rest of the way. We’re not that far out of town.”

She shook her head. “No. Probably too late,” she said. “We had to drive too slowly already, and now this? By the time the cab gets here my train will be gone.” She grimaced. “Looks like Mike gets his way after all.”

Sherlock huffed in amused agreement, then scowled, and scooted back into the driver’s seat. He turned on the engine—and began to swear as he watched the dials and gauges.

“What?”

“Out of gas.”

“You’re joking, yeah?”

“No.”

She started to laugh. “But you got to drive the car you wanted to drive.”

“Are you willing to bet the tank wasn’t almost empty regardless of what I picked?”

She shook her head, laughing. “He’s a crafty, clever hoor, that man,” she said. “Devil he is.”

He sighed, and leaned back. “He was the worst brother. Impossible to trick. I tried to prank him so many times—and I don’t think I got him more than one time in ten.”

“And he gave you apple pie beds in retaliation?”

He chuckled. “And put frogs under the pillow.”

She laughed and laughed, then said, “Oh, go on. Call him. You know he’s up at the Big House waiting for it. Daresay he’s already got a tow truck lined up and the Rover ready to bring us back home.”

He nodded, and called. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. Out of gas, would you believe? No, I couldn’t believe it either. And to think your people vetted the entire fleet just the other day. You’ll have to check for a slow leak in the tank, won’t you? Yes. Track our GPS. We’ll be here.” He hung up, and snorted. “He’s like a cat in a fish market. All innocence and glee.”

She just smiled. Then, quietly, she said, “I like him.”

“What?”

“I like him.” She nodded to herself. “He’s probably a right pain as a brother. But he’s a lovely man, and he loves you to bits.”

“Strange way of showing it,” he said.

He turned off the car engine, and the music disappeared. It was still in her head, though—shimmering and happy and tender. Sad and joyful. Wistful and rejoicing. So many kinds of Christmas…

“I’m glad you’ll be here,” he said, abrupt and obviously abashed. He frowned at the windscreen, where the snow was piling up.

“I’m glad, too.”

“Really?”

“Yes, ye’ prat. Really.”

His hand, then, slid across the divide between the two seats, and he gripped her fingers tight.

They said no more about it until the tow truck pulled up, closely followed by an enclosed Rover with Lestrade at the wheel.

He played Christmas music all the way back, and they all sang along. Even Sherlock.


End file.
